the (reichenbach) fall of our stars
by clarabella wandering
Summary: It is raining when I arrive in London. I spot two fairly short people, one a blonde lady, and the other a scowling man. His face brightens when he sees me, and he escorts his wife towards me. "Hazel? Hazel Grace?" John Watson asks, and my smile drops a fraction, but it comes back bright and strong at the next sentence: "I'm your uncle." [Crossover: TFIOS and Sherlock.]
1. Chapter 1

**So, I've had this idea floating around in my head for a while now. I hope y'all like it.**

**_Disclaimer:_ I do not own the _Fault in Our Stars_; John Green does. I also do not own _Sherlock_; all rights go to BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**_Title:_ the (reichenbach) fall of our stars**

**_Summary:_ It is raining when I arrive in London. ****I spot two fairly short people, one a blonde lady, and the other a scowling man. ****His face brightens when he sees me, and he escorts his wife towards me. "Hazel? Hazel Grace?" John Watson asks, and my smile drops a fraction, but it comes back bright and strong at the next sentence: "I'm your uncle."**

**_WARNING:_ Slight AU in this fic, as it's set in a time where Sherlock was never banned from England and called back via Moriarty.**

* * *

**the (reichenbach) fall of our stars**

_"to a great mind, nothing is little." -Sherlock Holmes._

**by Everyone's a Mortal.**

* * *

I am watching reruns of _American Idol _when my mother and father stride in, and I groan internally at whatever is to come. They mean well, I know, but there are times and days when I want time alone, just me and my tank, but I rarely ever get what I want, and I have learned to accept that.

"Hey, kid." My father says, smiling at me and sitting on one side of the bed while his wife takes the other. "Whatcha watching?"

_"American Idol." _I say, like it's obvious, because it is obvious.

"Oh, nice." My mother pats my arm and reaches for the remote, but not before staring at mean old Simon, intently. "He's British, right?"

"Yeah." I respond, rubbing the back of my neck. "Why?"

"Just wondering," my mother says. "England is nice."

"Yeah."

"Every wanted to go there?" Dad asks, and I arch a brow.

"Maybe. Why?"

My parents exchange glances and I groan inwardly again at their cryptic expressions. "We're sending you there for the Summer, sweetheart." Dad gulps, "An uncle of yours lives there."

I sit up so fast that my head spins from lack of oxygen. "I have an_ uncle?"_

"Yes. An uncle and a sister, actually," Says Mom, "John Watson, my brother, that's who we're sending you to. Just for one summer, Hazel. It'll be fun. It's all worked out. You're leaving in two weeks."

"What about money? And the doctors? Treatment?"

My parents smile at me, "Your uncle is a doctor. He's got connections, he'll help us out. Don't worry about the money, Hazel. We've got you." Says Dad.

I sigh, a light resigned sigh that takes a lot of effort. "Why now?" I ask, even though I know and they know I know.

Dad and Mom get up, take turns to kiss my forehead. "You know why, sweetheart." They say, and walk out of the room.

There's an unspoken name that lies between us, that speaks the reasons of why I'm leaving and of why I don't watch tv on the couch anymore.

(That name is Augustus Waters.)

**...**

The week before I am set to leave, I visit Isaac. His mother opens the door and lets me in, silently. I can hear the video game sounds before I reach his room, and for a second I wonder how a blind man can play video games. Then I remember it's Isaac, and that he's probably failing miserably, but it makes him feel normal, so on he plays.

I open the door and, as greeting, announce, "I'm going to England in a week."

Surprised at the sudden intrusion, Isaac drops his controller, causing enough time for a COM to shoot his avatar and bam, he's dead. "What, for real?" Isaac asks, because he already knows who it is, he can tell by my voice. He feels around for the controller but I hand it to him, sitting down on the spare bean bag that he has saved just for her.

(There used to be three.)

"For real," I confirm, "I'm leaving in a week. For the whole summer. Gonna spend it with some uncle I've never met."

"What if he's a mass murderer?" Isaac asks, and I nod.

"Exactly! What are my parents thinking?"

"What's his name?"

"John Watson."

The controller slips out of Isaac's hands again and the boy turns towards my general direction. _"John Watson?__"_

"Um. Yeah."

"Where does he live?"

"London, why?"

Isaac gets up, grabbing my hand and his metal cane, before stumbling out the door and expertly running down the hall (he knows his house like the back of his hand, which he could once see). "Hey, mom!" He yells, and the quiet woman steps out from the kitchen.

"Yes?" She asks.

"Can you show us John Watson's blog real quick?" His mother pulls out her computer and logs on, quickly typing in an address before glancing at me. "Read it." Isaac commands, once his mother has done the deed and walked back to the kitchen.

So I read, and my mouth drops open because I hadn't made the connection, for some odd reason.

I was related to _the _John Watson, _Sherlock Holmes'_ best friend. "What the hell?" I murmur, and suddenly I am excited to go to London.

"You better get me an autograph, Lancaster."

"If I have to," I say, and they laugh, stumbling back into Isaac's room to play more video games.

(I think that Gus would've quite liked that afternoon.)

**...**

It is raining when I arrive in London. The first thing I do is call my parents, because they told me not to worry about how much the phone bill would be. So I call, and they are happy, and when they finally hang up I call Isaac, leave a voicemail because he doesn't answer, and grab my oxygen tank before smiling at the attendants who are helping with my bags.

I wonder for the hundredth time how my parents obtained enough money for this trip, but don't question it any more once I spot two fairly short people, one a blonde lady, and the other a man who wears a scowl.

His face brightens when he sees me, waving, and escorting his wife (Mom told her about his wife) towards me. "Hazel? Hazel Grace?" John Watson asks, and my smile drops a fraction, but it comes back bright and strong at the next sentence: "I'm your uncle."

"Nice to meet you, uncle Watson." I say, and he laughs.

"Just John is fine." He responds.

"Well, then. Nice to meet you, Just John."

John twists his face into a sort of corkscrew look. His wife laughs, "Oh, I like her." She says, and reaches out to hug me. Once the pregnant lady lets go of me, the three pick up my bag and run out to the waiting cab.

The ride back to the couple's apartment is a long one due to traffic, but we converse along the way and it isn't so bad. I like my newfound uncle and his wife (her name's Mary). At the apartment, they show me to my room, and I do my medicine and everything, don't even have to call John. When I'm done, I steps out for dinner. I'm exhausted, but John and Mary warned me about how you have to sync yourself into a new timezone immediately, so I wait until it's nine o'clock in the evening, and then go to sleep.

I dream deeply and intensely about a place that's far and yet not too far. In that place, there is a hotel room where two teenagers lie.

(They are dead and in love.)

**...**

It's Mary who wakes me up, her swollen belly making it difficult to lean over me. Once she manages to haul me out of bed, I shower and change, looking in the mirror only after I've brushed my teeth. I do my best to comb my hair, then stumble outside, hauling the tank behind me. John is sitting at the table, tapping it impatiently, but he smiles when he sees me. "I've got your Phalanxifor, Hazel. Ready for it?" He asks, and I nod. After I've taken it, John stares at me for a second, like he's seeing me for the first time. "I'd forgotten I had a niece." He says finally.

I feel myself become red in the face, as John shakes his head. "You're going to have a cousin, soon," he murmurs, referring to Mary's baby bump. I smile at him.

"Where are we going?" I ask, because I want to go out, and because John seems to be thinking about something. "Do I get to see London?"

"Not today, Hazel." He responds, looking apologetic. "I have to see a friend of mine."

I try to keep my breathing level, but I'm excited at the thought of meeting _Sherlock Holmes. _"Can I come?" Looking around the room, I say, "I mean, you can't just leave me in a new city in a _different country _all alone. Please don't. I'd be a wreck."

John taps his fingers against the table again, but I can see him giving in. He sighs, "Okay. Grab your coat and meet me by the door." I smile, triumphant, and move as fast I can with my tank.

**...**

"My friend..." John starts, then stops. "He's, um. Special."

I nod, "what's his name?"

My uncle gulps. "Sherlock," says he, "Sherlock Holmes."

There's a pause in the air before I smile, "I've heard of him."

"He's dangerous, you have to be careful around him." Says John. It comes out in a quick breath and he stops for air before continuing: "He's not very... emotional. He'll look at you and read out your life story without knowing even your first name. Be careful, Hazel. Don't let him get to you, mm? Don't let him make you... cry, or anything."

John waits for my response, fidgeting with his seatbelt. When I start to laugh, he looks confused. "Uncle John," I say, trying to study my breath. My chest hurts from laughing. "Do you take me for a sensitive teenaged girl? I'm tougher than I look. You don't know me as well as you think."

He sucks in another breath and I realize my mother probably told him all about Augustus and Amsterdam. "I know you're tough, Hazel."

There's another pause.

"But you don't know Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

**Alright, so, I don't know if I'll continue this fic; depends on how many reviews and follows/favorites I get. **

**Let's see... If I get ten reviews, I'll continue this story, so_ review, review, review!_**

**Thanks for your time.  
God bless,  
Lyn.**


	2. a study in sociopathy

**First off, I'd like to thank everyone for their reviews! I'm hoping that this will get more follows/faves as time goes on. But, we'll see. I'd also like to apologise for any late updates: I'll do my best to update regularly.**

**Disclaimer: **** I don't own _TFIOS _or _Sherlock._**

**Title: **** the (reichenbach) fall of our stars.**

**Chapter Title:**** a study in sociopathy.**

* * *

**the (reichenbach) fall of our stars:**** a study in sociopathy.**

_"my thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations." ~Augustus Waters._

**by clarabella wanderling.**

* * *

When the cab pulls up to Sherlock Holmes' flat (that's what they say in England, isn't it?), John helps me out, holding my arm and gently grabbing the oxygen tank that never leaves me. A lady meets us on our way up, introducing herself as a Mrs. Hudson. She's sweet, almost overly so, but John informs me that she isn't all she seems.

"No one is, these days." I respond.

"No one ever was, to begin with." He retorts, and I realize that John has some well-hidden spunk in him. We make it to the top of the staircase, and I'm panting, sweat pouring down my back and flashes of another staircase flooding my mind. "You okay?" John asks, reaching for the medicine tucked in his back pocket.

"Fine." I respond. "Just fine. Let's go meet Sherlock Holmes, okay?"

John tilts his head at me, nose scrunched up. "O-okay." He says, and reaches for the doorknob. Before he touches it, though, the door swings open, and we come face to face with the greatest mind on earth.

"You were taking too long," is all Sherlock Holmes says. He turns, striding back into his apartment.

John rolls his eyes, motioning for me to go first, so I do. I do my best to control my breathing. "Ah, um, Sherlock? This, this is, my, um, my-"

"Nephew?" Sherlock interrupts. I feel the heat begin to blossom at my cheeks. The man takes a quick glance at me. "Yes, nephew. Has some sort of infliction, obviously. Probably cancer. Definitely cancer. They haven't been sleeping well, which is obvious from the bags under their eyes. Probably from the states, which explains some of the fatigue, but not all. It doesn't explain the defeated posture or the deflated cheeks. Tell me, did you lose someone? Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Best friend?"

I open my mouth. Close it. Breath in. "Yes." I finally say.

"Ah. Thought so. And you have cancer?"

I nod.

"So, I didn't get anything wrong, then? I love it when I'm right." He smirks at me, but it doesn't reach his eyes and even I can tell that this man? This man is not happy.

"Actually-" John starts, but I interrupt him.

"I am female, thank you."

Sherlock's eyebrows fly up. "But - your hair - and the clothes you wear -"

"Are you saying girls can't have short hair, or wear any clothes they please?"

John snorts when Sherlock's eyebrows rise even higher, "No, I'm-"

"I have boobs." I say. "And a vagina. I'm female. Totally female. Got a problem with that?"

Sherlock Holmes' eyes narrow, and I meet them, my heart thumping in my chest and all the breath knocked out of me. "She's spunky, too. Are you on Mary's side?"

"John's."

"And you're American? Interesting."

"Mom's British."

Sherlock hums, then turns, walking to a nearby chair and sinking into it. "She can stay." He decides, but whether that was directed to John, or himself, it isn't clear.

"She was going to stay no matter _what _you said!" John harrumphs.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You need to go to the store. I need milk, Vaseline, and bacon."

"Oh?" John shakes his head. "And where will you be going?"

"The park. I need fresh air."

"Hmm, and why can't you..." I stop listening, focusing on my surroundings. Sherlock Holmes has a skull in the corner of his apartment. His books are strewn about and a violin lay on his kitchen table, next to a rotting apple and what looks like a finger stuck in amber. He's a madman, I realize, a sociopath at his finest, but he's _genius._ I like him. He's tall and dark and handsome and _British, _every American dying girl's dream. He's new, and I need new.

"Hazel!" I hear. I spin around, and John is standing by the door, a grocery list in his hand. "Time to go."

"Where?"

"The market."

I raise a brow, "Just us?"

John nods, looking at Sherlock with murderous eyes. I weigh my options. I can convince these men to let me go with Sherlock, which seems a lot more cooler, or I can go to the grocery store with my uncle, which is probably safer and includes food.

"I'm going with Sherlock." I say, opting for the first option.

"What?" John asks.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock snaps, at the same time.

"You heard me." I grin, stomping my foot against the ground.

"You're not going with him," John shakes his head.

"You're not coming with me." Sherlock agrees.

"Why not?" I ask, innocently. "After all, you're just going to the park. What's wrong with that?"

Sherlock sniffs. "Many things. First of all, I don't know how to take care of dying people. Second of all, I walk at a pace for to fast for oxygen starved individuals. Third-"

"I'll keep up," I respond. "I'm dying, boys. And I want to live it up while I can. Please?" I glance at John.

He sighs.

"If you take her I'll get everything, even the Vaseline." John bargains.

Sherlock narrows his eyes.

His resolve weakens.

"Okay." Sherlock says. "We're leaving now."

I follow him outside.

* * *

Once outside, we grab a cab. Sherlock's first words to me are: "We're not really going to the park."

"I know."

He glances at me, the smirk which I had already become acquainted with not quite reaching his eyes, "I know you know."

There was a short silence, and I let my thoughts collect themselves. I'd learned, a long time ago, not to speak without thinking. You could lose everything that way, and though I know that one day all will be for naught, that everything and everyone will be gone and forgotten, swept into oblivion, I still wanted to make a good impression on the genius that was breathing next to me. "So," I finally say, my tank hissing air into my lungs as I breath, "Where are we going?"

The smirk slips from his face and he's serious again. I wonder what's going on behind those eyes of his, wonder if he's everything everyone says he is, or worse. I am determined to know. Sherlock glances out the window, "On an adventure."

I sigh. I shake my head, and when I do, I can see the ends of my hair falling into my eyes. I haven't cut it in a while, even though I know I should. "Look, I'm here for the entire summer, so you should just be honest with me, and save me trouble of playing detective and figuring things out on my own."

"I don't think you're capable of doing things on your own," Sherlock responds, crisp and clean and crude. I straighten up, feeling the heat rush to my cheeks.

"Why? Because I have cancer?"

His response cuts the air in two, "No, of course not, I'm brilliant not dull. What I mean, Helen-"

"Hazel," I interrupt.

"-whatever." Sherlock snaps, "what I mean is that it isn't your personality. That much is easy to see."

"Easy?"

He nods, "I can see it in the way you carry yourself, defeated, at peace with the reality of dying. I can see it in your dress. You live in a fantasy, pretending to be okay, almost believing it. You're weak." He waves his hand, gripping the handle of the cab as the car rolls to a stop. "And I think you know it."

Sherlock Holmes opens the door, and steps out. I sit there, shocked, unmoving until his hand shoots back into the taxi. His voice rings loudly: "Come along, Baizel."

I take his hands, dragging my oxygen tank with me and mumbling, "It's _Hazel." _As we march down the street at a pace just a little too fast for me.

* * *

We don't head to a park, but instead to an Italian restaurant that sells wine so over-priced it could stop my dad's heart. "What's in here?" I ask.

"Information." Sherlock responds, slipping on a smile and guiding me with his hand, opening the door for me and chuckling like I just said something witty. "Hello!" He chirps to the elderly lady standing at the desk. He's faked an American accent. "Table for two, please." He glances at me, eyes crinkling slightly. "Father-daughter night."

His tone is casual and sickeningly sweet, but the grip on my arm gives way to his plead of asking me to play along. So I do. "I'm a sucker for anything pasta." I explain. The lady smiles.

"Right this way," She murmurs quietly. We follow her. On our way to our table, she tilts her head and squints at Sherlock, "You look like that detective on the telly. You 'im? You Sherlock Holmes?"

He shakes his head, "No, though they say I do bear an uncanny resemblance. People say I also look like Tyler Mitchell. What do you think?"

The woman smiles, and says, "Ah. Must be my eyes givin' out, then. My apologies."

"Oh!" Says Sherlock, "It is absolutely _fine." _We get to our booth and sit, 'Dad' helping me place the Tank at a comfortable area. "Could we, by any chance, get Mr. Camlcatch as our waiter? He's attended us many a-time, and he knows _exactly _what Gretel here enjoys."

Reception Lady smiles again, hands us menus, and walks away.

"Hazel." I correct, as soon as she's gone.

"What?" Sherlock asks, distracted as he takes in the area.

"My name is _Hazel. _Hazel Grace Lancaster."

Sherlock groans, _"I don't care."_

"Well, I _do." _I harumph. "And who's Mr. Camlcatch? That's the longest, most ridiculous name I've ever heard."

"He's an informant. I'm working on a case."

"What type of case?"

An impatient sigh slips past Sherlock's lips, "someone is luring young teens -of both sexes- into alleyways. They rape them, strip them of their clothes, stuff them naked into a bag with a cockerell, snake, dog, and drop the bag in the Thames." Sherlock clears his throat, leaning forward. "They seem to be copying the Ancient Roman punishment."

Just then, a man strides up to our table. I giggle, "Dad, that's the stupidest story I've ever heard."

My breathing is coming in shallow breaths, though, and have to grip the table tightly to keep myself steady. "Hello!" I say, "Mr. Camlcatch?"

The man, who's tall and handsome, gives me a look before turning to Sherlock. "Who's the girl?"

"Insurance." Sherlock responds.

"Of what?" Mr. Camlcatch asks. I notice his hands itching towards left leg, and my hands grip the table tighter. We might all sink into oblivion one day, but I don't wanna die via gunshot.

"You had a wife, didn't you, Benjamin?" Holmes smoothy counters. "She died. Terminally ill, correct?" Benjamin says nothing. Sherlock leans in, "Would you really kill a girl who's already on her way to death? Who's suffering what your wife endured? Would you risk giving me false information? I can tell when you lie. I will _kill _her without hesitation."

I hold my breath, which is very extremely not good for me, and watch as Benjamin Camlcatch holds my life in his hands. How treacherous, I think, to imagine a person like Sherlock Holmes an angel.

He's a man, not a miracle, I decide. He is not to be trusted, or adored, or given a life to hold. Sherlock Holmes is a sociopath. He is the man he was this morning, and as I watch him hand my life over to the waiter before us, I don't think that will ever change.

Benjamin glances at me, at my watering eyes and white hands.

He lets out a breath, looks at Holmes.

"What do you want to know?"

Sherlock smiles.

* * *

When we walk out of the restaurant, we've learned that the murderer and rapist is a woman. She lures her victims not into alleyways, but a boat. We didn't have a name, but Mr. Camlcatch told us she had strawberry blond hair and "eyes as blue as the sky".

"You were ready to kill me." I say, and stop walking, the tank groaning to a halt.

Sherlock takes out his phone, taps it impatiently. "We have to be home in fifteen minutes or John will be worried."

I slap him.

His face takes on the look of surprise, then rage, and then a certain calmness. "Oh." He says. "I'm sorry."

"YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE DONE IT IN THE FIRST PLACE!" I scream, and faces turn towards us.

Sherlock squints, "I wasn't actually going to _kill _you. It's called acting for a _reason. _I needed insurance. I didn't bring you with me simply because you're better at _arguing. _I could have one that argument if I wished. But I saw use in you. You should feel proud."

I scoff, "I'm telling John. And Mary, too."

He gulps, "Don't. Tell Mary. Or John. But definitely _not _Mary."

I raise a brow, enjoying my sudden power. "Give me one reason not to."

"Mary will kill the smartest mind in the world."

"I don't care."

"John will be sad."

I roll my eyes. "I want to see Big Ben." I decide.

Sherlock raises a brow. "That's easy."

"Even the inside."

His smile fades.

Mine brightens.

"You can take me sometimes next week." I say. "But right now I want to go see my uncle." Sherlock looks pointedly at me and nod. "My lips are sealed."

Sherlock hails a taxi, and once we get inside he gives the cab driver his destination. "221b Baker Street." He says.

The cab speeds off.

* * *

**Notes: sorry for the wait, the chapter took me longer than expected to write. Also, who else caught my references? Sherlock messing up Hazel's name? Eh? No? Okay... **

**Actual**** Notes:**** I haven't yet decided if I want to include Moriarty, and Mary shooting Sherlock, etc. I might make this more AU and leave out Sherlock's banishment, Moriarty's return, Mary's murder. PLEASE forgive any spelling errors and un-British terms. I'm Texan. I don't know much about the English, unless we're talking the Suggs, Dan and Phil, and the Chapmans (oh, and Doctor Who. Very much DW). I liked this chapter because it explored Hazel and Sherlock's relationship. This fanfiction will be based more on Sherlock and Hazel, not romantically, but in a platonic, brother-sister (maybe father-daughter, but probably not) way. John will also be a key part, as he is Hazel's uncle, and Mary, too, but it is definitely Sherlock-Hazel centric. Augustus isn't being mentioned much, but that's because Hazel has always figured a usually quiet person, and it serves to me that her grief would be quiet, as well. As for Isaac and everyone back in the States, they'll be mentioned as time goes on, but not to great extent. I apologise in advance if I mess up anything having to do with cancer or illnesses: I'm a little ignorant when it comes to that matter.**

**_Reviews. Would be lovely. I know you can leave them, because to a great mind, thoughts can be fathomed into constellations (see what I did, there?)._**


	3. the blind of breath

**the (reichenbach) fall of our stars: the blind of breath.**

_"you see, but you do not observe."  
~Sherlock Holmes._

**by clarabella wandering.**

* * *

Two weeks pass, and are less exciting. I spend them with Mary, in the flat while John's at work, watching T.V. (they call it telly, here; Mom would love it). Mary's a blast, often spouting sarcastic comments at the shows. She's as clever as they get, I think. Augustus would've liked her.

I glance down at my hands, like I'm expecting a bigger one to wrap them up, big and strong and healthy. That's how I choose to remember him, not the way he was before death. If he could see me now; pessimistic little Hazel Grace, choosing to remember him when life was good.

He'd laugh.

He's always there, in the back of my mind, saying things that only a philosopher could come up with. But I push him away when the memories get too strong, when my breath comes shorter. I suppose he'll always be there.

An infinity stashed away.

"Hazel, sweetheart?" I can hear Mary calling me, and I look up at her, tilting my head to the side. "You're crying, darling. What's wrong? Do you miss home?"

_Damn straight. _I want to say. But I don't open my mouth, just wipe the tears away and rack my brain for a way to get out of this, when all of a sudden the bell rings and my shoulders slump. "I'll get it." I offer, and let out a groan as I push off the couch. Mary seems to dissect me as I walk away. She's definitely clever. Maybe overly so, I realize.

I'm almost to the door when it bursts open and I stumble backwards. Arms wrap around me faster than I can recall, and I'm looking into the eyes of Sherlock Holmes. He places me on my feet and glances awkwardly at Mary and I.

"Well?" Mary asks, looking at him with a wary expression. "What do you need, then? We're out of vaseline, if that's what you're after."

Sherlock shakes his head. His hands gesture towards the door, and then to me. "I'm, I'm, I'm. Um, I came to... to... I came to...-"

"For heaven's sake, spit it out, Sherlock!" Mary rolls her eyes.

He straightens, tone sharpening. "I'm to take Hazel to visit that infernal clock."

* * *

I walk out the door with him, photographers snapping photos, and he walks ahead, uncaring of my outcome except for a few glances back every couple of minutes. I suppose, to some extent, he worries about me on behalf of uncle John. How flattering, I think, to be a thorn in Sherlock Holme's side.

At one point the reporters almost overtake me, and it's then that Sherlock reaches back for me, lifting my tank to help me walk. "If you believe in hell," Sherlock says, "You're bloody well on your way to it!" This is directed at the reporters, and they calm instantly. He takes advantage of this, dragging me towards a cab. He opens it, practically pushes me inside, and then takes his own seat. "Ben." Sherlock directs, and the cab takes off into London.

"You took your time, huh?" I ask him, and he sniffs.

"I had business to attend to."

"How's the case?"

Sherlock groans. "Taking a teenager with me, what was I thinking?"

"You're barely thirty!" I roll my eyes at him, the sheer ridiculousness of this man getting to me. Honestly, he's like a child.

"Whatever. It's not like age matters anyway. It's merely a number. Idiocy is the problem."

I grit my teeth, breathing out slowly. "I'm no idiot, Sherlock."

When he looks at me, there's a smirk on his lips.

"Never said you were, Hallie."

* * *

Big Ben is magnificent. It comes and goes and ticks and tocks, no incidents occurring. After we leave the dark interior, Sherlock places his eyes on me, as if expecting something.

"It was cool. I can see why so many spies get trapped in there, though."

His face goes blank. "What?"

I chuckle; a detective who's never seen spy movies. "Nothing. Where too next?"

Sherlock shrugs, "Oh, a bite to eat, perhaps."

I shrug, "Anything unhealthy will do."

"Ah, I forgot. The girl who wants to die."

I raise a brow at him, "You didn't forget."

"You're right. I didn't. Just being polite." His hand shoots up, "Taxi!'

Within a few minutes we've pulled up to a restaurant along the Thames. A McDonald's sits there, beckoning. After Sherlock goes to the bathroom and ordering our food (chicken nuggets for me. The oddest thing on the menu for Sherlock), we take a seat by the window. "Any luck on the case at all?" I ask. The curiosity is killing me.

"Oh, for God's sake. Hansel, leave it alone!" Sherlock slams his fish something-or-other onto the paper wrapping. "It's for your own safety. John insisted."

I drop my nugget.

"You're listening to uncle _John?" _I ask, gaping. "Are you _high?"_

"Don't be absurd," he breathes out, "I've been clean for two months."

I steady my breathing. "Sherlock-"

A scream erupts inside the McDonald's as the lights shut off. This normally wouldn't be a problem, except it's eight in the evening and the sky is dark. "Sherlock?" I ask, and his voice answers me, low.

"Stay calm, John."

I don't think he's realized he's called me my uncle's name.

"It's just a perfectly normal power out-" There's a muffling, and I scramble for my phone, straining to light up the area where Sherlock is sitting. Once I find it, I press a button and the screen lights up.

Opposite end of me, there is no Sherlock. My head hurts as I struggle to stand, when all of a sudden a woman is opposite of me. "Don't stand, honey." She murmurs, a cool hand flying to my forehead. "Stay calm, stay still. It'll be alright. Count to ten with me." Together, we embark on a short journey. Once it's reached, I feel much better. I lock eyes with her. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

She has blue eyes, warm and concrete. "H-Hazel." I say. "And-and yours?"

She chuckles, "Candice. Did you lose anyone in the darkness?"

I nod. "A friend. Someone took him."

Candice looks about. "Now, who could be important enough to be stolen in the darkness? You'd have to be Sherlock Holmes, or the queen!"

I give a weak laugh. "You'd have to be Sherlock Holmes." I say.

"What's that?"

"Nothing."

She helps me up, "You're American, I see."

"Visiting family."

"Ah, how lovely." We head out the door of the McDonald's. "Do you mind if I take you to my house real quick? It's by the river. It'll only be for a few minutes, just to grab my mobile and then we'll pop off to look for your friend, yeah?"

She has her hand on my back, but it slowly sinks lower, and when I look at her again, I take in the strawberry blond hair for the first time.

Blue eyes, Benjamin had said. Eyes as blue as the sky. And strawberry blond hair.

I feel sick to my stomach as we walk along the street. "Can we slow down?" I ask. "This speed's a little too fast for me."

Candace's face softens. "Of course, darling. Wouldn't want you to strain yourself."

"Of course." I mutter, gripping my tank tightly in my hand. We're heading towards a more secluded part of the street, and I begin to feel uneasy.

"Once there, you should probably sit down. I don't want you lightheaded." The hand sinks lower, close to my butt, and I turn to her.

"Do you mind if I call my friend?" I ask, and suddenly the hand pulls away. "Maybe he just ran to the bathroom or something."

She opens her mouth, and then closes it. "Perhaps. But we're very close to my house. How about calling him when we get there?"

I shake my head. "I think I'll be fine." I pull my phone out, but as I begin to dial Sherlock's number, the woman grabs me roughly and pushes me into an alley. I scream, just pressing the 'call' button as she hits me.

About a minute of struggling goes on when a blinding light hits our faces, and an familiar voice calls out: "Candace Jane Keasbey, step away from the girl and put your hands in the air." Candace stops short of removing my shirt, and I push her away roughly.

_"SHERLOCK!" _I scream. He climbs down the steps of a building, wrapping a blanket around me. Detectives swarm the area. A man with greying hair handcuffs the woman.

"Hazel," he says, "Are you okay?"

When I greet him with silence, he shakes me. "Hazel!"

"Is this what you do?" I ask him.

He seems relieved I have a voice. "What?"

I elaborate, "Is this how you treat people?" I pull myself away from him, dragging my tank down the alley with me. "You just use them as you see fit, even if it scars them permanently?"

"Hazel, someone grabbed me out of the restaurant. I didn't have a say in this-"

"Don't start, Holmes." I shove a finger into his line of sight. "You totally knew. I bet no one even grabbed you. I bet you orchestrated the entire damn thing, asshole. You pretending to care about me, you pretending to watch out for my well-being, but it's all for you. This is _just a case, _damn it! You don't _use _a _human _like that. You don't leave them to be molested and raped by some perverted maniac." When I turn away from him, I can hear his orchestrated sigh.

"I do care for you, Hazel. I visited you almost everyday last week. I got to know you. I knew you were clever enough to see through this woman's facade." Sherlock pauses. "It's why I allowed you to walk into the danger. Didn't you want adventure? Didn't you want to die?"

I ball up my fists, and he puts his hand on my shoulder, where the sleeve hangs, torn. Finally, with resign, I say to him, "I want to orchestrate my own death, Sherlock. I don't want someone conducting it for me."

"Hazel," Sherlock breathes, "There's always someone conducting others."

It's then that Hazel realizes that Sherlock Holmes has called her by her real name.

* * *

After two hours of John and Mary yelling at Sherlock (resolved by Hazel telling them to shut up and go to sleep), it's decided that Sherlock will not be taking Hazel on surprise adventures anymore. Sherlock swears, but Hazel sees the way his fingers cross behind his back, and hides her smile.

The month passes.

Chess is played and stories are exchanged. Candace Jane Keasbey is put behind bars and Hazel stops having nightmares. "What if she hadn't been stopped, though?" Hazel asked John at one point.

"The important thing, Hazel, is that she _was _stopped. Remember that." He tucks her into bed like she's a little girl. It's late in the night, a week later, that a pebble hits her window. With her heart racing and a thump against the floor, she drags herself to look.

There, collar turned up and scarf covering his chin, stands Sherlock Holmes. With a grin, she opens the window.

"Want to go on an adventure?"

"Why don't you take uncle John?"

"Your uncle is many things," Sherlock says, "But single is not one of them. I don't believe that he'd enjoy hunting for a masseuse murderer while his wife is on her ninth month of pregnancy. Last time I called him I was yelled at."

A pause.

"Let me grab my shoes!" I whisper.

"I'll have you back before six." Sherlock swears.

I grin.


End file.
